An old song from my Sunday school days keeps popping into my mind as an ear worm.

This world is not my home, I’m just a passing through, my treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue;
The angels beckon me from heaven’s open door and I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.

Oh, Lord you know, I have no friend like you, if heaven’s not my home, then Lord what will I do. The angels beckon me from heaven’s open door and I can’t feel at home in the world anymore. (at least not in the US)

If that 54% was just sitting on the tracks drinking a beer and wondering what all the noise is, I wouldn’t care. I’m past the point where I will only laugh at their self-induced suffering.

But, they are sitting there building a derailer to knock the train off the tracks so they can go back to sitting. The other 46% of us are driving that train, shoveling coal into the firebox, blowing the whistle like crazy, and waving the lights. The crash is going to impact us a lot more than it impacts them.